Under the Stairs

I pass the chemical plant
by the trestle on the way home
and the smell of sulfur in the air
brings me to the back door
of the house on Boulder View Drive.
Usually barricaded by a lawn mower,
tools, and cases of silver cans
with bold black lettering: B-E-E-R—
you know, the old ones with the
pullback tabs.
Four wooden stairs out to the backyard
we had a fort there,
under the stairs.
We would play with matches,
hoard discoveries like old Playboys—
that the perv at the card shop sold us—
polished rocks, supposed arrowheads,
candy, rubber snakes, and fake dog shit.
Our prized possessions were daggers
that we made with a bike handlebar grip
and a stick sharpened to a dull point
on the cement of our blacktop
double-driveway, or on one of the large rocks
that made our street a dead end.
At school nearby we were told that
Indians used them as drums,
but now under the stairs, at age nine,
they separated the neighborhoods
and created rival soccer teams.
We weren’t supposed to go over there
or to let anyone in
so we stayed away and were told not
to talk to strangers even though
we knew their kids.
Ryan was nice enough, even though
he lived on the other side of the rocks,
even though he had to take a different bus
to get to school.
We should have let him in.
Maybe then the man at the card shop
wouldn’t have got to him.